


By Any Other Name

by queenofkadara



Series: The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall & Arya Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Making Up, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: “I’m yours to command, Lady Lavellan,” he whispers.She grins suddenly. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she teases.Blackwall,she calls him. He smiles down at her. The name is a benediction when it’s sung in her voice. He didn’t want forgiveness and he didn’t ask for it, but he realizes now that his stolen name falling from her lips is the sweetest kind of pardon.He lowers his mouth to her ear. “Politeness has its proper place, my lady,” he growls. “But that place isn’t in my bed.”





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm almost finished my first runthrough of DA:I and technically I'm romancing Solas (WHO JUST DUMPED ME, THAT BASTARD), but Blackwall kind of came out of nowhere and bashed me in the face with feels with his SECRET IDENTITY, so this is my reaction to the whole thing. And hell yes, I'll be romancing the big beardy brute in playthrough #2, so no spoilers please!! xoxo

What's in a name? That which we call a rose  
By any other name would smell as sweet.  
\- _Romeo and Juliet_ , by William Shakespeare

*****************************

_Maker’s balls, I want a drink._

He stands at the workbench in the annex with his head hung low. Painful thoughts bash through his mind like a Storm Coast monsoon. His throat aches for the comforting burn of booze, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t drink anymore when he was like this. For a man like him, liquor is nothing but a pretty lie: a shroud for ugly truths that don’t deserve to hide, a balm for a selfish heart that doesn’t deserve relief. Blackwall - the _real_ Blackwall - had convinced him that a strong liquor or a hearty ale should be for celebration, not self-pity. 

For the umpteenth time, the Inquisitor’s face drifts through his mind, her gamine visage slack with dismay when she looked upon him in his cell in Val Royeaux. He rubs his hands roughly over his face. He’d thought it would be the last time he would see her, and it took every ounce of self-restraint in his wretched corpse to _not_ tell her he loved her. Then, against all odds, she’d brought him back to Skyhold, and it had taken every scrap of will in his sorry soul to _not_ tell her he loved her when she sat on her throne and set him free, her face serious but kind. 

He runs a hand through his hair and pulls hard at the roots, thankful for the punishing bloom of pain across his scalp. If only he could erase the distress he caused when he admonished her for bringing him back to Skyhold. _I shouldn’t have said she stained Josephine’s reputation,_ he berates himself. _It was needlessly cruel._ But he was just so angry that Lavellan thought him _worth_ something. 

She’s wrong, though, and he knows it. He’s worth nothing. He’s not worth the coin she spent to make him a new set of dragonscale armour, her violet eyes shining as she presented the gift. He’s not worthy of the softness in her gaze when she looks at him, the respect in the tilt of her chin when she nods at him, the heat of her lips when she kisses him. He certainly wasn’t worth the cost - in time or influence - to bring him under the Inquisition’s judgment. He’s not worth anything. He shouldn’t have let Josephine's people escort him from the prison. He should have ended it all en route to Skyhold- 

“Rainier.”

The sharpness of her voice sends a shiver of shame down his spine. He turns slowly to see Arya Lavellan striding towards him, and a jolt of shock makes him nauseous: she looks like absolute thunder, her delicate eyebrows creased in a scowl that contorts the pattern of Dalish tattoos on her face. He realizes with a fresh surge of regret that he’s never seen her so angry, not even when he told her who he was, not even when she judged him as the criminal that he is.

He straightens respectfully as she draws close. “Inquisit-”

She draws her arm back and slaps him hard across the face. A red-hot burst of pain blooms across his cheek and he stumbles back, more from surprise than from the pain, but she’s coming at him again with her hand raised to strike, her lips curled in an uncharacteristic snarl of fury. 

A surge of remorse renders him breathless. The Inquisitor is better than this, but she’s angry, so fucking _angry_ , and it’s all his fault. 

Lavellan slaps him again, catching his ear this time and leaving his head ringing. She advances on him and shoves him, then beats his chest with delicate fists. He knows he deserves every punch, so he doesn’t defend himself. But this only seems to enrage her further. 

“How could you _leave?_ ” she yells, and her voice is taut as a bowstring and vibrating with rage. “A note, Rainier. A sodding suicide note. That’s all you left me before going off to _die?_ ” 

She’s stopped hitting him, but her chest is heaving with angry breaths, and he wants so badly to gather her in his arms and wipe away her rage. But he lost that privilege when he lost her trust. Instead he straightens up, clasps his hands behind his back, and lowers his head deferentially. “I had to go. It was the right thing to do,” he insists. He resists telling her the second half of the truth: that if he’d tried to say goodbye to her in person, if he’d gazed into the ethereal mauve of her eyes, he’d have lost the courage to leave her side.

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?” she shouts, her voice echoing to the rafters. “You should have told me who you are. I can understand hiding the truth when we first met, perhaps, but you should have come clean! You should have told me before we… before you _fucked_ me!” 

Her last sentence pierces him like one of Cole’s poisoned daggers, and he flinches. He’d been hiding from this like the coward he is, shielding himself from this fact as though he could protect himself from the guilt by pretending it wasn’t true. But as always, his Inquisitor is right. 

“Yes, I should have,” he replies, and his voice is harder than he means it to be. “Add it to the list of reasons you should have left me in Val Royeaux.”

She gapes at him in silence for a moment. “You utter bastard,” she breathes. “You’re blaming _me_ for this?” 

Her glare is fierce, but he knows his Dalish lover’s face, and he sees the vulnerability in her eyes. Self-disgust is heavy in his gut. _I did this,_ he thinks. The Inquisitor is enraged, sad, _uncertain_ , and it’s all his fault. 

Before he knows what he’s doing, he steps close to her and cups her face in his hands. Her eyes are shining, and a sympathetic lump rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. “You shouldn’t care about me,” he insists quietly. “You deserve a better man. I’m a murderer, a deserter and a traitor-” 

She shoves his hands away from her face. “It’s too late for that!” she yells. “I’m not going anywhere, all right? Andruil’s tit, I just wish you’d _told_ me. Then I would have told you how stupid you’re being, and all of this could have been avoided!” She grabs his tunic and shakes him. “You’re a not a murderer anymore. How can you not see that?”

A note of hysteria creeps into her voice as she continues to berate him. “You’ve acted as a Grey Warden should. You kill darkspawn, you convinced other Wardens to abandon Corypheus…” She thumps his chest with her fists again, but her body is pressed against him, and he’s not sure when she got so close. “You’re not a murderer anymore. That’s in the past,” she insists. “You know what you _are?_ A stubborn, thick-headed, insufferably noble, self-flagellating-”

He kisses her. His hand slides around the nape of her neck and into the short tufts of her hair. Her fingers clench in the fabric of his tunic and she thrusts her tongue into his mouth, sleek and hot, and he basks in the sweetness of her mouth for a long moment until the guilt forces him to break away. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her lips. “I betrayed your trust, just like I betrayed my men-”

“Would you shut up?” she interrupts. “Just shut up. And don’t you _dare_ lie to me again. You’ll tell me the truth. I want to know everything.”

Her fingers are tugging insistently at his belt as she speaks, a stark contrast with the forbidding tone of her voice. Half-heartedly he reaches down to stall her hands, even as a perverse flare of desire sparks to life in his belly. “Arya, wait. Are we talking, or…?” 

“Not right now,” she snaps, then grabs the back of his neck and kisses him hard.

He shouldn’t give in. He _shouldn’t_ , and he knows it; she deserves better. But he can’t help himself. Her waifish figure is pressed flush to his front, her fingers twined in his hair, and before he has time to think, he’s lifting her up and wrapping her legs around his waist. 

She rubs herself against his cock, a sinuous motion of her hips, and he groans into her mouth. Her breath hitches in her throat, a subtle tiny gasp, and he takes advantage of her parted lips, nipping her plump lower lip with his teeth. He shouldn’t give in, he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been able to resist her. Back in Haven when she quirked her eyebrow and tossed him a grin, he knew he shouldn’t have grinned back. That was Thom Rainier responding, piercing through the man he was trying to be, but Arya Lavellan has always had that effect on him: she peels away his stern facade and stokes a warmth in a hearth he’d long thought cold and dead. She slips beneath the cold, hard armour of his duty and warms him with her cheerful light until every battle he fights is no longer just a duty: it’s a privilege he’s proud to take on. He’s followed the verdant glow of her palm into the darkest caves and most sinister chateaus, and she’s always guided them out, her Keeper’s robes crimson with blood but her face shining with optimism.

He would have died for his duty and his guilt, but with this woman in his arms and her nails digging into his neck, he has every reason to live. The Inquisitor whispers of hope, like a shard casting light into the darkness of his past, and he loves her for it. 

A sweet whimper escapes her lips at the nip of his teeth, and she grinds against him more insistently. She presses her mouth to his cheek. “Take me upstairs,” she breathes. 

He loves her, he loves her so fucking much, and she deserves so much more than a man like him, but he’s powerless to deny her command. He ascends the stairs as quickly as possible, her weight supported by his stronger right arm. She brushes her lips over the tender juncture where his beard melts into the shaven skin of his neck, and he tries to ignore the feeling as he watches his steps, but he might as well be trying to ignore a dragon’s roar. The roar he hears now is louder than the Hivernal and more insistent than the Kaltenzhan. It’s the howling of his need for her, the drumbeat of his own heart as she scrapes her teeth over his racing pulse. 

He throws her onto his bed and wastes no time in pulling off her clothing piece by piece. Her boots are the first to go, thrown carelessly aside as he crawls onto the foot of the bed. He watches impatiently as she fumbles with the button on her trousers. When the fastenings finally come free, he drags her trousers down to her ankles. 

Her knees fall open instinctively, and a rush of saliva floods his mouth as he stares hungrily at her sex. Her feminine folds are slick and inviting, framed coyly by her chestnut curls, and he swallows hard; her taste will be on his tongue in a matter of moments. But she’s frantically pulling at her vest, trying to remove her scarf and undo her vest buttons at the same time, and despite the howling of his lust, he smiles fondly at her eager clumsiness.

She arches her back and tugs fruitlessly at her vest. “Blackwall, help me,” she whines.

 _Blackwall._ It’s the first time tonight that she’s called him that. A sudden squeeze of guilt and abject gratefulness stops his breath for a moment… but only for a moment. His need for her is overriding everything now, washing away any dutiful reluctance he might have had, and he’s powerless to do anything but obey her wishes. He pulls her right hand away from her scarf and tugs off her elbow-length glove, then does the same to her left. 

The glove slips off of her elegant fingers, and the anchor on her palm glimmers a faint emerald-green. This mark used to make him queasy with its demonic green glow, but he understands it better now; it’s a part of her, an integral tool that lets her light shine from this world into the Fade, and he loves it as much as he loves her. 

He kisses her glowing palm tenderly, and she strokes his face briefly before he sits back on his knees and unwinds the scarf from her neck. He quickly unbuttons her vest, and she roughly pulls the offending garment off and throws it aside before peeling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. 

She leans back on her elbows, naked as a babe in arms. The flickering lantern-light washes over her skin, highlighting the angle of her hip and the smooth plane of her belly, the gentle curve of her breasts and the slight sheen on her lips. Her short hair is in disarray and she peers at him through her spiky bangs, and Blackwall simply _stares_. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve the privilege to drink in her bare-skinned beauty, but she’s the most exquisite woman he’s ever seen, and he can’t tear his eyes away.

She raises one eyebrow, then arches her back slightly and spreads her knees. “Come here,” she demands. 

He’s powerless. There’s no point denying it. He tears off his own gloves, then kneels at the foot of the bed and drags her towards him with his hands on her thighs. 

She lets out a little bark of surprised laughter as she slides down the bed, but her mirth melts into a moan as he slicks his tongue over her sex. She’s so warm and so _wet_ , and the fragrance of her desire dazes him as he laps hungrily at her pussy. The tip of his tongue gently explores the length of her cleft, dipping deeper until she jolts and gives a tiny cry. He lavishes her plump folds with long, gentle strokes of his tongue, drinking in her arousal and leaving the moisture from his tongue behind, then caresses the delicate nub of her pleasure ever-so-gently with his lower lip. 

Lavellan arches her back slowly and gracefully, her legs parting even wider in blatant invitation. “Blackwall, please,” she pants. “I want more.” 

_Blackwall._ The name is a benediction when it’s sung in her voice. He didn’t want forgiveness and he didn’t ask for it, but he realizes now that his stolen name falling from her lips is the sweetest kind of pardon. Blackwall is more than just a mask now; it’s a proud title, something he aspires to live up to, and when the Inquisitor calls him this, it’s more than just a form of address: it’s her belief and her acceptance, her trust that he is capable of being who he aspires to be. 

He doesn’t deserve that trust, but he can feel his muscles relaxing even as the tension begins to build in hers, her thighs becoming rigid under his fingers as he continues to gently brush his lower lip over her clit. She arches her back more insistently, then reaches down and twines her fingers in his hair. “ _Please,_ ” she insists. “I need more.” 

“Yes, my lady,” he growls, then slicks his tongue firmly over her swollen bud. 

She jolts beneath his mouth. Her one hand grips his hair tight, and her other hand clenches in the sheets. “More,” she cries. 

She lifts her hips entreatingly, and he’s powerless to resist the demands of her body. He laps sweetly at her clit, then carefully parts her folds with his fingers and slides one finger inside of her. 

A mewl of pleasure escapes her throat, an almost feral sound of ecstasy, and Blackwall feels a surge of pride. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve to feel her tight heat pressing around his fingers or her sweet-and-salty musk on his tongue, but right now, he doesn’t care. The Inquisitor is panting beneath him, her breaths coming short and sharp in anticipation of her rapture, and he focuses on the sounds of her pleasure with every scrap of attention he has.

He slides another finger into her sleek heat, and she lets out a sharp moan. He curls his fingers inside of her and smoothes his tongue over her firm bud in a careful circular rhythm. She thrusts back against his hand, her body sinuous and eager, and his simmering lust boils over at the hungry rocking of her hips. Her back is curved like a bow, her breasts outthrust and her pearled nipples begging to be touched, and he’s never wanted her more. His cock is throbbing in his trousers, his pulse pounding between his legs in time with her gasping breaths- 

Lavellan releases a sharp cry and throws her head back, and her inner walls are clenching around his fingers. He swirls his fingers in a deep, circular rhythm and lavishes her clit with careful laps of his tongue, and her thighs convulse against his face for a long, exquisite moment before she relaxes. 

He roughly wipes his face on his hand and rises to his feet to gaze down at her. She’s limp with pleasure, splayed unselfconsciously on his rumpled sheets, and his throat swells with emotion even as his cock jerks insistently in his trousers. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve to see her looking so damn delectable in his bed, but she called him Blackwall. She believes in him. He needs to be worthy of that belief. 

She opens her eyes, and the heat in their purple depths steals his breath. She lifts herself to a sitting position and reaches unerringly for his belt. Her fingers are skillful and sure, as though her climax has given her new purpose, and she rips his belt from his trousers in a matter of seconds. 

She gazes up at him while unbuttoning his pants, her face serious but her eyebrows lifted mischievously. “Take off your clothes,” she commands. 

He’s powerless. He pulls his coat and shirt off as she shoves his trousers down, and suddenly her lips are encircling his cock. Blackwall gasps in shock and rapture. Her hands are on his ass, pulling his pelvis close to her mouth, and her mouth is hot and wet and _ravenous_ : her lips are brushing the raven curls between his legs, the pressure of her throat squeezing the head of his manhood as she takes him deep. 

She slides one slender hand between his legs and caresses his balls, and he throws his head back in rapture. Her nipples brush against his thighs as she arches her back towards him. The soft caress of her breasts contrasts with the hard suction of her lips around his cock, and he indulges himself shamelessly in the marvelous sensation for a long, blissful moment.

Suddenly she pulls away. “Fuck me,” she orders. “Right now.”

Her face is utterly serious, her eyes blazing with intensity and her lips bright red from her ministrations. She’s everything he doesn’t deserve, but she calls him Blackwall, and he needs to make himself worthy of the claim. 

He kicks off the trousers pooled at his ankles, then abruptly wraps his arm around her waist and crawls onto the bed, clutching her close beneath him. He drops her on the pillows and lifts her long, silken leg over his right shoulder, spreading her wide. “I’m yours to command, Lady Lavellan,” he whispers. 

She grins suddenly. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she teases. 

_Blackwall,_ she says. He smiles at her. The Inquisitor’s purple eyes are glowing with humour and an affection he doesn’t deserve, but he can’t help but bask in it. He strokes the length of her throat with his left hand, and her playful expression is abruptly replaced with desperate desire as his callused palm drifts over her breast. 

Blackwall rolls her nipple between his fingers and lowers his mouth to her ear. “Politeness has its proper place, my lady,” he growls. “But that place isn’t in my bed.” He slams his cock into her in one hard thrust. 

She screams an unequivocal _yes_ , her cry shivering up to the rafters, and a surge of pleasure and pride render his cock even harder. She grips his right arm, her nails biting deep into his skin as he fucks her hard and fast just the way she likes it. He grips her hair in his left hand and kisses her hard, and she suckles greedily on his tongue when he plunges it into her mouth. 

Their skin slaps together with the satisfying sound of their sex. With every long thrust, every tight squeeze of her slick inner walls around his manhood, his resolve toughens like dragon scales. She bites his lower lip, and he silently promises to never betray her. She reaches between their bodies to stroke the precious bud between her legs, and he silently swears never to lie to her again. She bucks off the bed, lifting her hips fiercely to meet him thrust for thrust, and he silently pledges to follow her every shining example. They fuck long and hard, and when she finally screams her climax, her body convulsing beneath him and bringing him along to his rapture, he silently vows that he’ll love her forever.

They lie together silently in the aftermath, his face pressed against the warmth of her neck. She runs her fingers gently through his hair, and he can feel the gentle pulsing of energy from the anchor on her palm. 

Slowly he lifts himself onto his elbows, then kisses her glowing palm. She smiles at him, her eyes brilliant in the flickering light of the lantern. She looks so relaxed and happy, and she’s so fucking beautiful, and she deserves better than a man with a stained past. But he’s so hopelessly in love with her, and after all this, after the way she fought to bring him back, there’s no way he’s tearing himself away from her again.

He kisses her palm a second time, then strokes the delicate lines of the tattoos on her cheekbone. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” he murmurs. “I never meant to fail you.” 

To his dismay, the smile fades from her face. She drops her gaze, then gently pushes him off and stands from the bed. He watches with growing distress as she retrieves her scattered clothing, then begins to dress.

The silence stretches between them as she pulls on her boots. Then she finally speaks. “The only time you failed me was when you left the Inquisition. When you left _me._ ” 

Lavellan’s voice is stern with reproof, but her words catch at the end, and she won’t look at him. She turns away and pulls on her gloves, and he watches hopelessly as the mark on her hand disappears under the protective cover of her gloves. 

Fully dressed, she finally looks him in the eye. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’re making amends as best you can. Stop telling me you’re sorry. Just… _be_ here.”

Her Inquisitor’s mask is back in place, her face stern but kind, and a sharp pang of remorse stabs his heart. His Lady Lavellan is hiding from him, tucking away the part of herself that she’d given so openly before, fearful that he’ll break the gift she’s offered him. 

_This_ is what he deserves. He’s earned her reserve and her caution, her doubt and her mistrust. But she calls him Blackwall. She gave him a second chance when he wasn’t worthy, and she gave him her pleasure cries and her intoxicating scent in his beard, and he needs to be worthy of these gifts.

He rises from the bed, uncaring about his nakedness, and grabs her hand. She tenses, her fingers clenching in his fist, but he pulls her close and tilts her chin up. “Arya,” he says insistently. 

She reluctantly gazes into his eyes, and he swallows hard to master himself. Words of love sit behind the clenched bars of his teeth, but he can’t set them free; he can tell from her face that she won’t believe him, not right now. So he tells her an easier truth. “I’ll be here,” he tells her. 

Lavellan’s face softens at the conviction in his voice. She runs her gloved fingers over his forearm in a gentle caress. “Good,” she says softly. Then she walks away. 

He listens to the gentle clatter of her footsteps as she descends the stairs. Then he slowly pulls on his clothes and makes the bed before returning to the main floor. He sits by the hearthfire and opens a bottle of grey whiskey. 

She calls him Blackwall. She dragged him back from a prison of despair and pulled him into her light, and here he’ll stay until he’s made himself into something she can be proud of.

He sips from the bottle. The motley mixture of liquors burns his throat on the way down, but he smiles to himself; the exhilarating warmth in his chest is better than whiskey. This may not be a true celebration, but it is a homecoming of sorts. 

The Inquisitor has duties to attend to, as does he. But when she finds a little time, her Blackwall will be here.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you would like to stop by and talk Beardy Baewall with me! :3


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